


Sweet, Juicy, Little Tart

by deviatehardorgohome



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, I’ve written a lemon about lemons, Not as a friend, Sansa really loves lemons, feelgood married life AU, so meta, unconventional dildos, utterly plotless
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-15
Updated: 2016-07-15
Packaged: 2018-07-24 06:23:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7497477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deviatehardorgohome/pseuds/deviatehardorgohome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A reunion after a long trip apart brings presents for everyone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet, Juicy, Little Tart

**Author's Note:**

> This is pretty rubbish. I was going for ‘bawdy’ but I think the dial landed on ‘trashy’ instead. But since I finished it, I may as well disgorge it all over the internet. Hopefully Chaucer would still be proud.
> 
> Oh yeah, I’m pretty sure in real life you shouldn’t put a lemon in your delicate lady parts. But in Westeros it’s OK because, uh, dragon magic.

 

The traveling party Lady Sansa had been awaiting for days arrived at Winterfell well into the evening. There had been little warning, so she busied herself with instructing the kitchens to prepare them a light supper rather than hurrying to meet them. They would surely have eaten on the road, but a hot meal or refreshing drink should always be awaiting a man returning home.

Sansa spent a few moments bringing such a drink, a very dark and potent red wine, to her chambers as the travelers were surely unloading the horses. She almost dropped it when she found the man she had been preparing to welcome already sitting before her fire.

“My lord! I didn’t expect you to be here so soon,” she gasped. “The kitchens have food readying, but I brought none with me. Come, I will take you to have something proper to eat,” She placed the wine down on a cupboard, out of his immediate reach, and beckoned him to stand and join her. She’d rather he not drink such strong wine on an empty stomach.

But to her surprise he did not react to the wine nor to her outreached hand.

“I don’t need food. Ate saltpork not too long hence,” Sandor Clegane gruffed. He took a swig from his own skin, which was probably very watered ale. “Did you find someone better looking to warm your bed while I was gone?” he asked bluntly.

Sansa smiled, enjoying their little ritual. It did please her so that he could be jovial and light-hearted now about his past shame and lack of self-belief.

“I looked _hard_ and _long_ my lord, but I couldn’t find any man that pleased me better,” she cooed, knowing she was likely ensuring he wouldn’t leave the chamber again tonight, against her better judgement.

“Ugh, I have a lackwit for a wife,” Sandor complained loudly to an invisible audience. “Why, just as we were coming home I saw a fellow on the road and was impressed with how favoured he was in looks, compared to my own,” he waved a hand for emphasis. Sansa waited patiently for his jest.

“But then we drew closer and I realised it was an aurochs some herder was taking to market,” he shrugged.

Sansa sighed.

“Not your best, I’m afraid,” she judged him, and approached to sit on his lap. He stood before she could get there, and cleared his throat.

“I brought a small gift,” he announced, a little awkwardly.

Even though Sansa now knew the value of coin too intimately to thoughtlessly enjoy lavish gifts, she would be lying if she said she didn’t still love presents. A fast-flowing current of girlish glee ran through her.

Without further delay, Sandor brandished something from his cloak like an entertainer doing a trick. Sansa would have laughed if she hadn’t been so busy gasping.

“Where did you get that?” She squealed, almost ready to do a dance on the spot. If such a thing hadn’t been beneath a lady.

“White Harbor,” he said, completely straight-faced. “It’s where I went.”

Sansa smacked his arm.

“I’ve heard no word of lemons arriving! And… the merchants know well enough that Winterfell will,” she struggled with some shame of her own, “always give them a fair price.”

“Are you already planning which jewels to barter?” He quipped, earning another smack. “Well, sorry to say you shouldn’t bother. There is no shipment of lemons. Just this one.” He held it aloft again, for her close scrutiny. “One lemon.”

“Why did anyone ship a single lemon?” She huffed, a wave of disappointment crested by a small foam of confusion.

“Because I paid them to,” he replied, still blank of expression. “And no, don’t ask how much. You don’t want to know, and I don’t want to tell you. Not even you would have paid for lemons at that price. I think this came from the other side of the whole world. But one… one I can afford,” his face finally crinkled up in his usual horrifying smile. “Just to see you happy.”

Sansa’s heart twisted like a washerwoman’s laundry.

“You do make me so happy,” she told him softly, taking the lemon gently and kissing him just the same. Then her eyes brightened with new light.

“The cooks! In the kitchens! They’re still busy feeding your men! Why, maybe they could have this prepared tonight…,” she bit her lip and turned to the door, already salivating at the thought of warm, sweet-scented lemon cake.    

“Is that the first order of business?” He laughed, harshly, but she knew it was just the only way he could laugh. “Will you sit by the oven and mark the minutes until the cake is cooked?” He teased, and she blushed, remembering herself.

“No, I think the first task should be to thank you,” she smiled coquettishly, as if she could still feel shy about such a thing.

“Oh?” he was suddenly in front of her; she had never gotten used to how fast he could move. The lemon dropped from her fingers, striking her hip and falling to the floor. Her pulse leapt like a salmon. “Any chance that would be with a kiss? It’s what a man thinks of to get himself over the next godsforsaken snowbank.”

“Well, I was planning to express my gratitude by reciting a poem I composed while you were away, about the sweetness of your love,” Sansa gushed wistfully.

Sandor wore the same expression Sansa was sure he would make if all seven hells opened their doors up to him simultaneously.

Normally she might draw out her fun, there being only so many opportunities for it. She still was not comfortable jesting with him in front of others, though she enjoyed very much the way Arya would yank his tail to get a reaction.

But tonight her heart truly _was_ softened by his deed, and though he might secretly cherish a poem, Sansa knew there was one unfailing method to assure him that her love was true.

And that was letting him put his cock in her.

She cut short his horror by deftly unbuckling his belt. At that signal he skipped relieved and proceeded straight to enthusiastic, hands coming up behind her to untie her laces and sweep over her back all at the same time.

Sansa enjoyed his caresses while removing his articles of clothing that did not pinch her fingers against some bit of metal. She knew he would not mind. Everything that separated her naked flesh from his was a foe to be vanquished, and men did so _love_ besting their foes. Especially now, later in life, as more and more of his problems did not come in forms that could be beaten into submission.

He only undid her dress enough to reach her bodice, and then loosened that enough to slip his hands down to her smallclothes laces. When every lace on her garments was weakened, Sandor focused his attack on his own attire, just as she predicted. She leisurely peeled off her dress and skirt, watching and being watched.

Once she was naked, Sansa regarded the lemon on the floor. Turning her back to him, she bent at the waist with exaggerated slowness to retrieve it. She hadn’t full straightened up before she was scooped up, legs thrown into the air; but when he laid her on the bed, he was gentle.

His rough hands ran over her soft skin with pleasing contrast. She kept the way free for his arms by using her legs instead of hands to caress him, her knees demanding and the silky inner of her thighs tempting. She curled her toes as his fingers found their way between those legs.

“Gods, you’re wet!” he exclaimed, removing his hand and crudely holding it up for his own examination.

“I…! Well! Surely that does not displease you!” she laughed. Seeing him after even brief partings always brought a tingle of delight as well as comfort.

“Hmm, it wouldn’t,” he said, tipping his head to one side, “If I wasn’t suspicious this isn’t really my doing…” he plucked the lemon from her grasp and flourished the fruit inches from her nose. “But the work of this!”

“You are awful!” She giggled, smacking at the hand grasping the lemon. “You brought it here, did you not? So… really… either way it’s your doing,” she tittered again. Sandor sighed.

“That may be broadly true, but it would be wrong to steal the reward bought by another man’s glory. Even if that man is a lemon,” he stated solemnly. Sansa pouted. She was in that kind of playful mood.

“But it can’t take the reward,” she bit her lip to keep the smile off her face.

“I would have expected someone who loved songs so well to have a better imagination,” Sandor rebuked her. Sansa narrowed her eyes. Her husband had an irreverent attitude to life, and she often found his “imagination” in the bedroom to be much the same.

Her suspicions were confirmed when he raised himself up enough to place the lemon against the peak of her womanhood; the most sensitive part. Her noise of disapproval became one of enjoyment as he pressed the firm fruit onto her in gentle movements.

“Oho!” he declared in response to her little slip-up, entering her with two thick fingers, stretching her deliciously.

“Unjust,” she protested as a garbled groan. His mouth was suddenly too busy to answer her accusation with words. His fingers filled her up while his tongue played with all her available flesh, rolling the lemon with such potency she almost wondered if he’d been practicing. Maybe it was simply the alien feel against her skin; being nervous did have the curious effect of making one more eager.

“And wetter still,” he finally rasped, looking up to her cheekily. The tendrils of his hair brushed over her thighs like ribbons, a hundred worlds apart from the cold firmness of the fruit. Suddenly she craved more of his warmth, and what little softness he could offer.

“It is good indeed! But let me feel your mouth there, the lemon is so hard. Your tongue is much better suited…” she huffed at him, shameless in her needfulness.

“As my lady commands,” he pretended to be chivalrous, gently licking her where the fruit had savaged her. “You are right,” he said between licks and kisses. “I shouldn’t have touched you with it here,” Another kiss, her breath hitching in her throat. “Any man knows there’s only one place on a woman to put something _so hard_ ,” he mimicked, face splitting into a sinful grin.

“Oh no-!” Sansa was cut off by her own yelp as a very solid object was pushed gently into her. “Don’t you, don’t you dare!” She gasped between heaving breaths.

“How can I not?” He asked with mock genuineness, “It _is_ his glory, after all.”

Sansa groaned, half in pleasure and half in annoyance. Was there really going to be no talking him out of this? If she was honest, though, it didn’t feel half bad…

…especially since he began to earnestly lick and suckle at her, as if the fruit had imparted its flavour to her womanhood.

“Oooohhhh,” she didn’t want to give in to him so easily, but he had been gone for what felt like _such_ a long time, and she was so very elated that he’d gone to such lengths just to give her a small piece of simple happiness.

She sucked in a sharp breath as she felt the fruit pressed in a little further. It wasn’t a small lemon. It was not incomparable to her husband, particularly when his blood was truly raging and she’d keep him at arm’s length until he was panting for her… Just the memories had her flinching in pleasure, and she cursed inwardly that he would think his stupid lemon responsible.

The need to warn him to be careful not to lose his grip on it had her opening her mouth, but before words could come out he… he twisted it. _Rotated_ it.

“Aaahh, oh, what a queer feeling that is!” Sansa exclaimed, grabbing handfuls of his tatty hair to give herself the illusion of control. His tongue circled in time with the lemon’s movements, and she didn’t know if she was coming or going.

“Is that bad?” He inquired, easing the pressure against her entrance.

“I don’t know. It is _strange_ , my lord. Is not everything strange to that place except what is _meant_ to occupy it?” She asked coyly. Surely no vulgar tavern maid could more brazenly ask for said occupant to take up its residence.

“And the gods intended your mouth to chew food, but we need not mention how _that_ plan has been defied,” he responded with characteristic dry wit. Sansa attempted to be offended, in vain.

“I suppose this is penance then,” she squeaked as his enthusiasm for violating her with the lemon rose once more. He made a noise of general agreement that Sansa knew indicated he wasn’t really paying attention to what she was saying any longer.

His gaze was fixed on the lemon, and his fingers were dancing around it, above it, softly and tenderly. His gentle touch that was so achingly sweet in the knowledge of how cruel he _could_ be. Sansa gave herself over to the sensations. He was too strong to fight.

Sadly it wasn’t long before it became apparent that although this was _pleasing_ , it wasn’t _satisfying_.

“My lord,” she pleaded, knowing it would annoy him, “Surely your wise resolve to discipline me has been fulfilled, and you won’t draw out my suffering longer?”

“Say what you’re meaning. This is distracting work,” he said with sincerity. He had such natural talent for being infuriating, she could never hope to match him.

“Aren’t you wicked to torment me so?” She fumed, “I have had my fill of lemons and I’m hungering for you now…”

He finally withdrew the fruit and held it aloft, shiny and sticky.

“So one thing isn’t enough for you anymore, eh? Taking two up your cunt in one night?” He shook his head. “I thought you were a _true_ _lady_ ,” he accused. “And from my not inconsiderable knowledge of courtly ladies, I know for a fact you should be able to do at least five,” he barked a laugh.

Sansa considered putting the lemon into _him_.

“Well, I don’t want to disappoint,” she conceded. “Why don’t you go and choose some suitable men and bring them up here-,” her disaffected drawl was cut short by his mouth finding hers and eating her up. He turned her onto her side and then kneeled over the lower of her legs, raising the other up against his chest to spread her open. Sansa began panting in anticipation. With one hand he held her upper leg pressed to him, and with the other he bent forward and grasped her shoulders, scrunching her up like a discarded garment.

He dipped down to kiss her, and she trilled into his mouth as her body became the victim of his pitiless invasion.

For a split second she considered pleading with him to be mindful of her fragility, but she thankfully discarded that moment of madness as he really got started, his movements both punishing and utterly delightful.

After his nonsense with the lemon he slipped into her so easily that he would have needed to make an effort to keep their hips from crashing together, which he pointedly did not. Every time he slid out, Sansa felt devastatingly emptied, and each movement in was excruciating completion.

By now his force had lifted him above her, and she lay sprawled against the mattress with no leverage for control, or even the chance to exert some minor impact on him. If she struggled against this tight and unnatural grip, the only thing she would do was hurt herself.

She could only brace herself, and cry out for mercy she didn’t really want and knew he wasn’t going to give her.

 _Love is a sweet poison_ , the memory came to her unbidden. This would have been painful if she weren’t so terribly in love.

 _We all die of something. Let me have such an exquisite death_ , and she thought of the sticky syrup of lemon cakes, and how they stung and sugared all at once.

It wasn’t even his movement that took her over the edge, but her own passion, lifting her aloft like a flood so high she almost cried.

He trembled with the effort keeping himself upright as convulsions wracked him, and by his face he could have been near tears also. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d cried while inside her. She kissed him down from the pinnacle he’d been on, and eventually he responded with gentle kisses of his own.

“Damn me,” he grumbled, “But I shouldn’t have been so savage with you,” he peeked at her, eyes full of apologies. “Do I really enjoy so much the notion of being jealous for your attentions?”

Sansa laughed weakly, as much as she was able. She’d have told him that she could feel the same way at the thought of _him_ having an entourage of women he was nightly servicing, but she knew he would only argue and protest that she could never possibly be jealous for his sake.

She turned her head to catch her breath and caught sight of the lemon, forlorn and forgotten at the edge of the bed. She reached over to pluck it up, finding it sticky to the touch.

“Now I shall have to give this such a wash!” She scolded him, and he laughed.

“Why for? The skin remains intact; none of you will have gotten to the pulp, even if you weren’t good enough down there to eat,” he pulled her close again and kissed her once more.

“The skin goes into the cakes too, didn’t you know?” She smiled. “Sliced so very small and fine you can barely see it. And how ghastly that would be for a high lady to serve at her table!”

“What? Oh no, if the skin goes in that cake, you eat it alone,” he huffed, suddenly incensed. “I don’t care how well you wash it; nobody else will have a taste of you!”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Sansa laughed, “How could I not share this little enjoyment around? Arya loves lemon cakes also, you know,” she reminded him, though he probably would forget it again in an instant.

“No,” he insisted. “That’s been inside you! No-one’s eating that.”

“Oh? And will you be the one explaining _why_ no-one else may eat the cake?” She queried, one brow raised. His lowered in response, but then levelled out as he affected a false air of solemnity.

“If it becomes my duty to tell the world Sansa Stark fucked a lemon, so be it,” he intoned, with his voice that was unmatched in its harshness.

Sansa kicked him right in the shin.

“Well, it’ll not only have cuckolded your wife, but stolen your place in her bed if you even consider doing such a thing!” She warned him, deadly serious. He broke back into his rasping laugh.

“Fine, fine, you can share some crumbs of your cake with other greedy little birds, if you must,” he chuckled.

Sansa giggled along, raising herself up on her toes to give him one more kiss; a _greedy_ one.

 


End file.
